Of Dalmasca's Sorrow
by Amorissy
Summary: The Queen is dead.  Long live the Queen.  A Final Fantasy Land challenge fic.


**Warning: **Character death. Mild spoilers for the end of the game. AU-ish, as I've never played "Revenant Wings"**.**

**Author's Note:** Written for Challenge 2.08, "Five Years After", at ff_land over on Livejournal. Vague hints of Basch/Ashe/Baltheir that is my head-canon.

* * *

><p><strong>Not Forgotten<strong>

* * *

><p><em>The Queen is dead. Long live the Queen.<em>

No one believes. The bells are ringing, singing; a sad, sweet song but no one believes. Too soon, too sudden, like an echo of the past made real, made bright and bursting. It is too sharp, too sour, too _much_, and the women weep in the streets of the crumbling city. The windows and spires of Rabanastre stand tall, steadfast and strong, but within her walls, there is pain and confusion and disbelief. The women weep and the men drown their sorrow in drink and prayer and pride.

The day her body is laid out in state for her people whom she loved so well, the crowds are thick and tears are free. Some say she was a beauty beyond words, others say a betrayer beyond salvation. Her people cannot feed themselves on her promises of tentative peace, not now. This uncertainty is a worse fate than the occupation of the empire, not so far left behind, not forgotten and never forgiven. No consort, no heir, only a council of ancient old men who hide behind closed, carved doors while her body lies cold on marble plinth, stone upon stone.

Word seeps out into the street, whispers beyond trace; rumour spreads like wildfire in tavern and clan hall alike, and it burns all those who hear the restive mutterings. Some say she named a successor on her last breath, others that she passed with no word on her lips, or perhaps the name of a clandestine lover, or husband long dead. Behind their closed, carved doors, the council remains silent as their pale as ash queen.

Through the streets come processions of unimaginable wealth and beauty; the children stare wide-eyed at the sombre black banners embroidered with silver, at men more powerful than their simplest notions could imagine. The people part for each cortege, climbing down the stone steps of the cathedral as each great ruler comes to bend knee in respect, to see one last time a woman of bravery and ability. The very first, bearing proudly the entwined serpents his house, young emperor and scarred judge. Their faces are masks, hard, unfeeling, but their eyes betray, always the eyes betray, red-rimmed and empty. The emperor leaves the cathedral to speak his heart and his sorrow to the people; his knight protector does not move from bended knee. It will be two days before he is guided away.

The streets grow quiet; the processions slow. Old men who have watched kings and daughters die sit in silence, contemplating on newer, darker futures. Fragile peace, was it so meagre a dream to be crushed so easily?

On the third day, the streets give way to restlessness; men in plain clothes are dispatched to keep the queen's laws, but all know them to be imperial dogs shed of their mail and helms as the young emperor strives ever for _peace. _Does he know it is a futile gesture, that he can never earn the forgiveness of those who remember too well the darkness and stench of the lower city streets? His brother spoke pretty words too, on the very steps the young emperor climbs every day to the great gleaming cathedral whilst she lies within.

There is blood that third day, on those very stone steps as a pirate is recognised as wanted. Guards try to stop him, but he will not relent, and his blade flashes as brightly as his smile as he cuts down those who would keep him from her. There are tears in his eyes when the scarred judge finally breaks his vigil to call off his men. The fierce Viera is unmovable, but her bowstring sings her mournful prayers, and her arrows are fletched with grief.

There is no rain to wash the blood away, only clerics with buckets in hand, and as the soapy water runs down the steps in a tumbling cascade, so too does it wash away what fight remains in the pirate, bloody blade in hand. The clangour of steel on stone reverberates down into the square for all who have ears to hear as his knees hit the steps and he swears an oath to gods and men alike.

On the fifth day, their brave, beautiful lady is laid to rest in the dark, lonely crypts beneath her desert palace, with father so merciful, and husband so courageous; together for eternity, sleeping in stone, never forgotten.

The sixth day is empty of bells, void of tears or cries, a day without anger or blood. The rumours still spread, still burn uncontrollably, but there is substance to the words and those moments give pause to those who listen with open hearts, and think with clear minds. A protector, it's said, a protector named, sought after, found, it matters little for it's plain now for all to see, and hear, if truly desired.

By afternoon, the city comes alive with the comings and goings of pages and stewards, merchants and clansmen; for near a week the silence had stirred no shadow within the walls of the great, sand-strewn city, but now the lips of her people blaze with hearsay in the sun-baked streets.

By dusk, the clear call of trumpets beckons them to the square, not bells, but _trumpets_. Forward they go to get their glimpse, to see and to hear and to _know_ they are not lost, not forgotten.

She stands before them atop the steps, a girl as golden as the desert sun, with feathers in her hair. She smiles for them, this hand chosen, this successor, and in that smile she knows them, for she _is_ them, and the sigh of solace that carries from the crowd is the breath of the desert as it sweeps over the great gleaming cathedral.

_The Queen is dead. Long live the Queen. _


End file.
